


the akatosh cycle

by yourlocalbirb



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, BAMF Martin Septim, F/M, Gen, Looping AU, M/M, Multi, Other, Time Travel Fix-It, and you get a looping AU and you get a looping AU and you get a looping AU, chapters not necessarily posted (or written in) chronological order, various crossover loops to come probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2019-11-14
Packaged: 2021-01-30 14:09:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21429493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalbirb/pseuds/yourlocalbirb
Summary: a loosely connected series of AU drabbles, written in the style of The Infinite Loops and other Groundhogs' Day AU-like concepts.Martin and his Champion find themselves reliving the worst days of their lives over and over again.
Relationships: Akatosh/Sheogorath (Elder Scrolls), Baurus & Martin Septim, Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil & Sheogorath, Hero of Kvatch | Champion of Cyrodiil/Martin Septim
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	1. Loop 1.1

“Why is this happening?” Martin demanded, only halfway caring if anyone else heard him. 

  
  


It wouldn’t matter if they did, anyways. None of them would remember, in the end.

The Dragon-god remained stubbornly silent, jaws frozen in a perpetual frown, stained-glass eyes staring impassively down at the dismal scene. The fires beyond threw flashes of brilliant yellow and pale blue light, warped impressions of his wings across the filthy, soot-smudged faces of the survivors huddled fearfully in the Divine’s chapel.

As Martin had guided the scattered townsfolk to the safety of the Great Chapel, he had known with a sudden, bitter certainty that this was not the first time he’d done so. 

  
  


Nor, he suspected now, would it be the last.

* * *

  
  


For the longest time, he’d thought them mere dreams, indistinguishable as they were from his other nightmares- those ones where he walked the nightmarish hellscapes of the Deadlands, helpless to behold Dagon’s invasion brought to horrifying fruition- but unlike those dreams, these ones did not hold terror alone, and told a story far greater and clearer than the indistinct, might-be horrors of the deadlands.

Also unlike those nightmares, these ones had started coming true.

* * *

  
  


The woman was going to die.

Martin knew that the poor woman would, even long before he’d seen her curled on the makeshift cot near the altar, the fresh bandages wrapped around her midsection already blooming with a growing crimson stain.

Had known it since the moment he’d first set foot in the city, had been conscious of it every day, every time she and her husband- her husband, already dead, trapped underneath the burning rubble that had been their house- had set foot in the chapel for prayer, and still he had said  _ nothing. _

* * *

He was tired of people dying. For him. Because of him, his actions. His inactions. Tired of  _ knowing _ , and doing nothing.

He was tired of-

The door swung ponderously on it’s old hinges, opening slowly. The soon-to-be Champion’s voice was an indistinctly murmured question he knew every syllable of by rote, the slow, cautious pace at which they approached as familiar and dear to him as his first memories of home, and when they slowed to a stop just a pace behind him, he had to force himself to remain calm and measured in his response, lest he startle them awa-

“Martin.” they said in a patient way that was in no way a question, and that was all, and he froze midway through his mental script, “ _ having trouble understanding the gods right now _ ” trailing off into stunned silence.

He rose, and slowly turned on his heel, and there they stood, armored in strange but sturdy armor he’d never seen them wear before, bloodied and weary looking. “It’s time.” they said, after a moment.

“Time for what?” he hears himself say, and he wants to smack himself across the face because he’s fairly sure he already knows what the answer will be.

  
  


“Time to stop waiting.” they said with a shrug, and tossed him the shortsword they held unsheathed in their right hand. He caught it by reflex, and stared at the merish blade in bemusement. 

“.....For…”  _ what on Nirn are they talking about here? _ “...salvation?” he guesses after a moment, trailing after them uncertainly as they turn and stride towards the chapel doors. 

The hero-to-be tilts their head in consideration and then nods agreeably, and adds with a wry grin. “For destiny!” They sketch a mock bow, a lampooned, over-exaggerated parody of a courtier’s airs, gesturing grandly towards the chapel door. 

He barks out an incredulous laugh despite himself. “ _ For destiny _ , indeed.” he mutters, ignoring the startled guardsmen and the fearful stares of the remaining townspeople. He steps forward and shoves at the wooden door, and slips out into the desolation beyond. 

Their eyes dart towards his, lingering for half a second as they pull something out of a pouch at their side before waving it in his direction- a scroll of Bound Armor, judging from the feel of it. 

“...For change.” they whisper, hesitantly.

After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it, giving them a small nod. “For change.”

* * *

Martin huffs, wiping sweat from his brow for what feels like the billionth time.

"I hate this place." he decides, after a moment of prolonged staring back at the fountain of blood, _actual blood_, and the ...massive spiked talon-shaped ...object that seemed to serve no discernable purpose that he could see, swinging aimlessly in the center of the lower room. "Used to dream about it when I was a child, you know."

"Mmhm, good, I'd be questioning several things right now if you said something like "Oh, I love it here!"- your sense of decor and aesthetical tastes among them. Also, what a boring choice of dreamscape, why would you do that?" Martin watched his companion rant for a moment, then leaned forward to stare past them up the sloping walkway.

"I mean, look at this place, it's ....so predictable that it's _boring-"_

Shadows bounced and flickered, barely visible against the gore-stained wall, but there nonetheless. 

"-So grotesque it's almost a parody of itself, I mean lava, spikes, mutilated corpses, _**really?**_ A child's idea of 'evil'- _Mmmph?!_" They scowled irately at him as he dragged them back into the shadowed alcove, hand clamped firmly over their mouth, a hastily cast Chameleon spell the only thing between them both and the-

He stared at the approaching shapes first in surprise, and then dismay. The only thing between them and a ....pack of scamps...

Martin grimaced. What a waste of magicka. 

They watched as the pack trotted down the ramp and into the room they'd just come from. One of them, smaller than the rest, wandered over to sniff at something on the floor- a stray arrow from one of the Dremora they'd fought, no doubt. It circled it curiously, and then stood bolt upright, calling to it's fellows, and then, midway through one of their kinds' signature grating cackles, there was a soft but distinctly audible _click._ Moments later, the talon's twin came swinging down from above with a ponderous metallic groan. 

Martin blinked, releasing the Hero and dropping the Chameleon spell as he did so. He surveyed the carnage and then let out a small, comprehending "_Ohhhh._" 

"Yeah." the Hero muttered from somewhere behind him, "I forgot about those. They do that."

Martin turned to give them an incredulous stare. They just shrugged at him, and then they both winced as the distant sound of another talon-trap triggering echoed up the ramp-well, followed by several dull, meaty thuds.

* * *

“How did you know that I remembered?” he asks, baffled, days later when they are on the road to Weynon.

“I didn’t." the Hero admits. "Just got lucky, was all.”

“Huh” Martin says, leaning forward to poke at the fire. “And what would you have done if I hadn’t?”

“Looked like an idiot, I suppose.” After a moment of silence they snicker and add. “Having no sense of shame helps.”

“There’s a joke there somewhere.” Martin mused. “But I’ll have mercy on you.” 

Leaning over, he knocks his shoulder into theirs, grinning impishly “For now.”

“Oh, very considerate of you,  _ my lord _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> looping champ and martin collectively share one brain cell, and Jauffre confiscated it 'for safe keeping' in his sock drawer with the Amulet of Kings
> 
> no proofreading we publish unbeta'd like feral idiots craving validation


	2. Loop 1.2 Moonshine, Moonsugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin's maternal ancestry is different this time around, to unfortunate, but hilarious, effect.

_ "Champion. _" 

The soon-to-be Champion of Cyrodiil groaned in protest, and rolled over uncomfortably on the stone bench, wedging themselves further back into the alcove. Across the hall, they could hear Valen begin to stir, and they frowned in distaste at the thought of him. _Unpleasant fool_, they sneered, _ at least he gets his comeuppance_. Somewhere further on down the hall, there was the faint clank of booted feet- the guardsman finishing his round and on his way home not but an hour before the Moment of world-shattering importance was set to occur, same as always, the lucky bastard- and then, there was a dull thump and a screeching, indignant yowl. They grimaced and pressed their forehead further against the cold, damp stone in a vain effort to burrow into the stonework, as though they could drown out the guard’s startled complaining through sheer force of will alone. 

Moments later, said guardsman stepped into view, muttering curses all the while. 

“Damn cat.” he muttered, turning to scowl back over his shoulder down the hallway he’d just come from. “Can’t even be bothered to do a lick of good and catch a rat while you’re down here, eh? Lazy bastard.” 

The cat, somewhere in the hall beyond, let out a haughty sounding _ mrrp _, and the hapless guard scoffed, turning on his heel, and managing to completely miss the soon-to-be Hero curled into the shadows of the ‘always-empty’ cell as he did so. 

"_My Champion, wake up. _"

"Ugh." the not-prisioner muttered, not bothering to move from their position. "Martin- you're early, aren't you? Not that I'm not glad you're here, but_ d'ya mind shuttin' up _ ? I'm trying to get some sleep before yer Da' shows up and we have to go through that whole fun business. Unless, o' course, _ you _ want to handle all that this cycle?"

"_ ...No. I think not. _"

"Hmmph. Leaving _ me _ to do all the heavy lifting, I see. _ Figures _ . ...Well, don't just sit there... pick the lock and get in here before the guards make their rounds again, escaping might be problematic if they find you and throw you in a different cell." Squinting blearily, they sat up. "You _ did _ bring lockpicks, didn't you?"

"_Not as problematic as you might think, actually _."

"Eh? Wha'dya mean-” They frowned at the empty hallway in confusion. “Wher-”

An impatient sounding _meow_ directed their attention to the floor, and they promptly burst out into incredulous laughter, no doubt further proving Valen’s not-entirely-incorrect assumption that they were entirely, completely nuts.

** _ “...Martin?!_ **"

"_Oh yes, laugh while you still can. _" the lithe, dirt-colored Alfiq snapped, hissing tersely as it slipped between the bars.

* * *

"Uhhh wait-” 

Martin grumbled drowsily as the warm hand running across his pelt disappeared, and did his best to prepare himself for whatever great philosophical statement that _ brilliant _ exclamation no doubt heralded.

Less than half an hour remained until his father came down those stairs with his Blades, and instead of trying to rest or prepare themselves like any decent person would do, Martin’s dearest friend had instead chosen to fill their scant remaining time with blurting out whatever inane questions popped into their head first. He kneaded his paws against the rough cotton of their trousers, and flicked an ear lazily in acknowledgment.

“Does this mean-” they trailed off into a giggle and Martin scowled and sunk his claws in a little deeper into the other’s thigh. They yelped in pain, and he let out a huff of satisfaction. His victory was short-lived however, as they continued on moments later, undeterred. “That your ...dad…” A hand swept past his ears in a broad, vague gesture, and he flattened them back irately against his head, hissing in warning. “.....y’know ....?"

"_Yes, no. Maybe _ ** _.” _ **His harried, snappish response sent the Champion into another fit of laughter and he swatted indignantly at their hands. When that proved ineffective he turned around and lunged upwards, teeth bared.

** _ “_ ** _ Shut up! Shut up, I'm trying not to think about it! _"

* * *

“You mean to say they managed to get ahold of the Amulet _ and _ slay the Emperor- AAGHh!”

“_Oh! _”

Baurus sheepishly lowered his blade, blinking down at the dirt-colored little feline peering up at him with wide blue eyes from around the corner of the crumbling statue’s base. He turned back towards the former prisoner, and gestured towards the wall, where the cat had wedged himself in startled alarm into the nearest alcove. 

“Thank the Divines,” he said, with a tiny, self-deprecating laugh. “It’s just a cat.”

“I’m sorry, lil fella. Hey, you can come out-”

“_You are a noble and good-hearted, loyal soldier and have remained a true friend in all the lives I’ve known you. Your apology is accepted_.” Martin declared magnanimously. He did not leave the alcove.

The champion rolled their eyes. “_He can’t hear you when you do that, you fluff-brained furball_.”

“Come on, now, buddy. You can come out, I won't hurt you. What on earth are you doing down here, my little friend?” Baurus knelt down to crouch at eye-level, unwittingly, with the very heir the Champion had just been directed to ‘find’. They stifled a laugh as he tried to coax the ‘poor frightened kitty’ out from behind the crumbled statue, clicking his tongue.

“_My friend, please, for the love of Akatosh, _ stop _ him- as good of a potential source of blackmail this may be, this is _ ** _embarrassing_ ** _ for all of us, and we don’t have the time- _ ** _Noo!!_ ** _ Stop that! Unhand me at once- Champion, _ ** _please_ **_!!” _

“Yeah, little fella must’ve followed us.” the Champion chimed in, mercifully stepping in to rescue their indignant friend from Baurus’ awkward clutches. “Seen him around in the halls of the jail a couple of times, apparently the guards just let him have free roam of the grounds.”

“_Don’t do it. I _ ** _will _ ** _ bite you. _” Martin warned tersely.

They adjusted their hold on him, flashing a brief, cheeky grin at nothing in particular before turning to add over their shoulder. “Haven’t the faintest idea why. Seems to be rather shite at catching rodents, to be honest.” 

* * *

"_Hey _ ... Mart_in _... " 

Reluctantly, Martin looked up from his work to see his Champion standing before him. That tone of voice only ever promised trouble. "_ ...Yes? _" 

"Pfffffff- I think- I th_ ink _ we might have a _ bit _ of a problem."

"_...what. _"

"The... The _ Amulet _-" The Champion trailed off into a deflating wheeze, tears streaming down their face as they tried desperately to catch their breath, hands flailing about in ineffectual, vague gestures as they crumpled to the floor of the Great Hall, snickering. Their liege-lord and friend gave them an unimpressed stare, tail flicking irritably as his Champion rolled onto their back, coming dangerously close to the symbols he’d spent so long directing the Blades on inscribing onto the floor. He leapt down from the chair cushion and trotted over to them. 

“_Take your time, my friend. _” he advised sardonically, and then, when they seemed to be genuinely incapable of finishing their sentence for want of breath, he leapt up to sit on their chest, genuinely concerned for their well-being. He pressed a paw to their forehead, a weak Calm charm at the ready. A deep purr radiated from him, and after a few minutes, they caught their breath long enough to sputter out:

  
  


"The Amulet- I don't think it's gonna _ ffffff _ \- _ fit _."

"_...Ah." _Martin removed his paw. _"Hm. I suppose that might, indeed, be a bit of a problem. _"

"Hey!” They sat upright, sending the Heir to the Ruby Throne spilling to the floor in a ungainly heap. He let out a yowl of offended protest, and they merely flashed him a bright, unrepentant grin in response. “We could- we could j-"

"** _No._ **" He knew that look all too well.

"_Www _ \- w_e _ could j- _ just- _"

_ "I said NO! _"

_ "....ki- kitty collar…!" _

* * *

  
  
_ “So the cats-paw of the Septims arrives at last- Wh- Why are you- _ **stop laughing-**


	3. Loop 1.3 Dawntide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We weren’t supposed to meet like this, y’know.”

“We weren’t supposed to meet like this, y’know,” The Champion calls out conversationally as he ducks low under another wild sword-slash. _ Amateur _ , he thinks with distaste.

He doesn’t receive an answer, not that he  _ expects _ to- not  _ now, _ focused on the battle at hand as they are. Nothing other than the din of battle and the ecstatically jubilant cry of another Dawn Cultist welcoming death at the point of his sword. 

Honestly, he can't see why the fool is so excited about Paradise, being as that they are already _there_, and frankly, it's nothing much to look at. 

Oh,  _ sure _ , it's  _ pretty _ , he’ll allow that much, but _ pretty _ in a very superficial, surface deep way. It’s also infested with bloodthirsty monsters, and while the contradiction is delightful, the execution falls rather flat. 

Then again, he hasn’t seen a realm yet that could pull off ‘pretty but deadly” nearly  _ half  _ as well as Mania.

  
  


“You,” he waves an accusing hand in the general direction of where he’d last seen Martin through the heat of battle, frowning as the Clannfear followed, snapped eagerly at his hand.  _ Rude.  _

“You were  _ supposed _ to be in  _ Kvatch _ \- suppo’sed t’be a priest- of-” he barks out a tired laugh.

“Of- of…  _ Akatosh _ \- funny, isn't it, Martin? Isn’t it funny? You were supposed to be in Kvatch when the Emperor…” His voice faltered. “When he ...died and-” 

A blade, a humming metallic blur out of the periphery edge of his vision. _Gods,_ that Xivilai _just_ _will not leave him alone_, will it? 

Parry, dodge, roll. 

A flash of Martin’s bright blue eyes amidst the fray, the lightning spell he’d always been so fond of charging in one hand, a bloodied sword in the other. The vaguest impression flashes through his mind’s eye of Martin teaching him that very spell one day on the way to Weynon Priory, and then his coaching Martin on his bladework in return, their fighting side-by-side at Weynon, at Bruma. The people, cheering on their heroes. The champion draws what strength he can from the memories and rallies again.

“-and then- and then the Dragonfires would go out, Dagon would invade, I was supposed to come find you, and then we’d-” 

A discordant, poorly executed and, frankly altogether unimpressive war-cry interrupts him, and he rolls his eyes as more obnoxious cultists rush in from ...somewhere, eager to join their equally obnoxious leader.

Parry. Dodge. Roll. Feint and slash. A near miss. Another cultist all but rushes to spit themselves on his blade. _ Idiot.  _

“-and then we’d save the world. You and me, against the whole of Oblivion. Just us.”

Martin snarls, robes a-flutter, preoccupied with defending himself from the dark-clad she-daedroth desperately trying to cleave his head from his shoulders, but the Champion  _ can _ tell he _ is _ listening. For a moment, he catches himself wishing desperately to rush forward and defend the other- and then thinks better of it as the Xivilai rushes him with with a throaty scream. 

  
  


He catches a glimpse of the Amulet dangling from the cult leader’s neck- a bloody flash of red against the blue, and something like hope burns madly in his chest as an idea comes to him.

  
  


_ The future they sought, he could still reach it, he just needed to- needed to hold out a little bit longer- _

An errant swing strikes true and the Champion goes down on his knees. He feels more than sees the last tenacious Mazken fall at last, felled by his dearest friend’s own hand. 

Not bad, he admires, dazedly, not bad at all. 

He struggles to keep a grip on his sword, blood dripping from a cut on his forehead and down into his eyes, clouding his vision. His magicka, great as even his reserves were, is spent at last- he has not the strength to summon even so much as a scamp, let alone heal his wounds, not like this. But he cannot give up,  _ not now, not when he is so  _ ** _close_ ** _ - _

  
  


And then Martin is before him, standing tall, fearless and unafraid amid the old Aylied stonework, the sunlight of a distant dawn crowning him with a halo of light, looking every inch the royal his blood decreed him to be. 

He surveys the Champion’s state with a troubled, mournful sigh, and then kneels to crouch at eye level with the other man. One hand drifts out to trace the edges of a cut along the Champion’s jaw, and it is all he can do not to lean into the touch.

“Spent at last are you, eh, my friend? A pity.” Martin shakes his head, and then repeats. “Such a pity.” He rises, and steps back a pace, leaving the Champion to kneel on the old-new stone of Carac Agaialor. 

The Champion grits his teeth. The paradoxes contained in those stones  _ alone _ make his teeth _ itch _ . The whole realm makes him itchy, really, if he’s being perfectly honest. It's one great big mosquito, the whole thing, annoying, sucking up life energy, and all around  _ just _ making things  _ itchy. _

He squints at Martin blearily.  _ How is the man not breaking out into hives right now? _ He wonders. Paradoxes, especially time related ones, had always seemed to affect him wors- Ah. _ Right. Not looping.  _

_ The pain might be getting to him. Just a little. And the slowed rate at which his magicka regenerates, half of it being siphoned away by this damnable, stupidly unstable realm. And also the itching. _

He realizes he’s staring blankly off into space again. Not that Martin seemed to have noticed much.  _ Idiot. _

_ Something about this place just seems to turn off every single mortal’s ability to think, or use even an iota of their observational faculties. Maybe it’s Dagon’s influence. _

_ Maybe it's the itching. _

“-to falter, and fail-”  _ Oh,  _ he’s _ talking. _ “-so close to the final victory. Alas,” Blue eyes flicker to meet his own, and the Champion nearly crumbles then and there, and loses what precious little of his resolve that remained altogether at the disappointment he sees there. “I had expected better.”

“And yet, perhaps…. it was  _ wrong _ of me- wrong of the Blades, the  _ Emperor, _ to expect so much of you. I  _ am _ sorry, my friend.”

“I truly am.” He sighs, sheathing his dagger. “They put too much on you, did they not? Leaned too heavily on you, wore you past your fragile limits. And,  _ oh _ , but Man  _ is _ limited, is he not? Bound by paper-chain constraints of his own design. There is only so much one may do against the insurmountable threat of Oblivion, and they were _ fools _ not to have seen it. You are, after all, but a man- wretched, guileless fool that you are, swept up in the currents of fate, plunging forward headlong. Unknowing, unseeing of the grander design.” 

The Champion barked out a bitter laugh at the overwhelming irony, and struggled blindly to his feet. 

“Oh?” Martin murmured in vaguely detached wonder, waving off the remaining Dawn Cultists with one hand, bright blue eyes fixed intensely on the trembling man before him.

“And still you struggle? So  _ brave _ . So foolish.  _ Aye _ , that’s it.” He encouraged in a warm tone. “ _ That’s it _ . On your feet, sword in hand, just so. One foot in front of the other, come what may. So be it.”

“Come, Champion of Auld Tamriel, come.” Martin leveled the sword in his hands, pointing it at him. “On your feet, and meet your death with courage.” 

  
  
  


“I will grant you a merciful end, a just and honorable death, witless pawn that you are. Truely, you are the last gasp of a dying age, if this is all the challenge the last, pitiful heir of the Dragons’ Blood has to offer me- but worry not, I will let you rejoin your master ‘ere you die.”

Something in him snaps, and the Champion bursts out laughing. “There-  _ oh, _ and you sit here calling  _ me  _ naive and gullible-  **there ** ** _isn’t_ ** ** one** , you great _ loon.”  _ Martin stares at him, a dumbfounded expression on his face, and the Champion cackles harder. “There _ is _ no heir in Cloud Ruler. I’m not  _ serving _ anyone, neither are the Blades. They gave up searching the moment they realized  _ you _ were gone.”

  
  


“Lies ill become you, Champion- they will not save you, your dying Empire,  _ or _ your master. Lord Dagon shall-”

“ _ Oh, _ Stop,  _ stop _ ,  _ stop. _ I  _ can’t _ \- I can’t _ take _ it anymore!” he wheezed, casually letting the sword slip from his numb-fingered grasp as he feigned clutching at his stomach. “ _ Listen to you _ , sitting there spouting that pompous _ bullshit- _ and I though _ Mankar  _ was a fool-”

As unobtrusively as he could, he slipped the small knife from its sheath on his belt and into his palm. 

“- _ you, _ you’re  _ actually _ somehow  _ worse _ at this than  _ he _ was-  _ you  _ can’t see the truth if it were right in front of your nose.” 

“I- what?”

He probes mentally at the slowly returning pool of his magicka.  _ Come on, come on. Almost enough. Just play for time. _

“There’s no heir hiding out in Cloud Ruler, you idiot. Never has been. Oh, sure, there  _ was _ one that escaped, lived on- Uriel had a bastard son, hid him, you see- and he sent me to- sent me to find him. Sent me to Jauffre- you remember him, right, Martin? Brother Jauffre, good ole Brother Jauffre? The Emperor sent me off to Jauffre, Amulet in hand-” His eyes flicker towards the Amulet of Kings where it hangs around Martin’s neck. “-because Jauffre alone knew where the Emperor’s secret son had gone.”

“Only it turned out he didn’t know much at all, did he? The last heir to the Septim Blood had disappeared, and by the time they realized they  _ actually _ needed to bloody fucking  _ find _ him, it was almost too late.”

“Almost?”

“Almost.” he agrees, tensing as subtly as he can as he readies the knife, eyeing the vulnerable, unarmoured robes. He will only have one chance at this. 

“You see, Martin, I didn’t come here for the  _ Amulet _ -”

_ Better make it count, _ he thinks, grimly. 

“-that’s  _ yours _ by rights-” 

He surges forward, crossing the distance faster than Martin can react. He ignores the dull thud, the soft cry of pain and the way it pulls at his shredded, tired heartstrings. He catches Martin, cradling him awkwardly against his chest, careful not to disturb the knife now embedded in the mans’ heart.

Ignoring the man’s slowly weakening, clumsy, thrashing attempts at escape, he presses the palm of his hand flat to the other’s back, the spell he’d crafted for this moment leaving a buzz of warm static beneath his hand- a strange mixture of paralysis and restoration and maybe just a tad bit of his own Daedric magic keeping the last Septim hovering in the instant between life and death.

_ Can’t  _ ** _stand _ ** _ losing,  _ he thinks with a wry smirk, the Other Sheogorath’s voice echoing in his head, _ and don’t I mind _ ** _ cheating_ ** _ . _

_ _

He holds tight onto Martin even as the magics holding Paradise together fall with their master, and prays to all the gods he knows, Himself included, that this  _ works _ . 

“You see, Martin,” he whispers. ”I came here for  _ you. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "non-looping Martin takes Mankar's place as leader of the Mythic Dawn cult" is not fun as far as variant loops go, zero out of ten, would not loop again.  
Champ occasionally uses he/him pronouns to describe themselves, but tends to change their mind from loop to loop


	4. Loop 1.4 Speak of the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Champion of Cyrodiil has never heard of the phrase "look before you leap".

Martin glowered darkly up at the statue, and then sighed, running one hand over his face. He could feel a tension headache starting to build. He’d need one hell of a health potion after this. Possibly several. Maybe even a drink- no, actually he’d better not. Intentionally getting drunk during a cycle never ended …. _ well _ , for either of them. It was either terrible or mutually humiliating, even in the best of iterations, and Martin didn’t fancy trying his chances and seeing what might happen in one  _ without _ his Champion by his side.

His Blades detail- far too many, in his opinion, and all of them crowded uneasily into the antechamber like fish in a barrel- milled about nervously behind him, clearly uncomfortable with allowing their lord so close to the Daedric Shrine. 

"So let me .....get this straight. You thought it would be a good idea to mantle a Prince BEFORE coming to find me? And didn't think to at least let me know beforehand... and... now... you're just.  _ Trapped _ . In Oblivion."

_ Just when he thought the cycles- loops- whatever they were- couldn't get any more difficult or annoying, his champion had to rush pell-mell into the nearest source of trouble, or, barring that, create their own. _

There was a moment of silence, and then the voice of his once-maybe-sort-of Champion replied cautiously, their words somewhat distorted by the amplifying magics of the Shrine. 

_ "Well.. no... I wouldn't say exactly  _ ** _trapped_ ** _ per say, what with the… fires being out and the ...veil being torn, and Mankar having the stupid amulet and all, but, uh, given the circumstances... such as they are, I think my returning to Tamriel would probably be rather counterintuitive at this point."  _ they said, in a tone of voice that sounded more like a recalcitrant schoolboy being asked to explain why they’d been called before the headmaster, than anything even remotely like a fearsome Daedra Lord.

_ "Mankar _ , gods  _ damn _ him to the Void and back.  _ Wait _ ... can't you just.. _ "  _ Martin gestured vaguely _ . "make _ him  **stop** ???"

  
  


_ "...No, and believe me, not for lack of trying. The fool’s crazier than a Hunger stuck in a barrel of mead, let me tell you. Stupider than one too- ‘Tamriel is the Daedric Realm of Change’, bah, honestly, what kind of idiot comes up with that kind of crap-" _

  
_ " _ Oh,  _ of course not." _ Martin muttered, already mentally tuning out the prattling Daedric Prince, throwing up his hands in frustration, and then he kicked half-heartedly at the foot of the shrine of Mehrunes Dagon for good measure. _ " _ T hat would be _ too  _ ** _easy._ ** _ " _


End file.
